On Musings or Why I Started a Substack

Trying to write my way out of writer’s block, sap-brained and all.

For a few weeks, I’ve been mulling over the idea of creative nonfiction—or, in my personal writing experience, musings and ramblings. I love writing, but lately, I think I’ve been forcing my work into neat and tidy genre boxes. Part of that comes from my job, where my writing (aka content) has to meet a particular need, fit a specific niche, and follow brand guidelines dictated by those above me. Another part comes from how I tend to format and structure my poetry—tight, curated, deliberate. Those habits don’t always leave space for the messiness and stylistic ambiguity I crave in my personal writing.

Lately, my non-novel-in-progress creative work has been ouroboros-like—self-cannibalizing, circular, even repetitive.

It’s been frustrating.

Here I am, someone who writes almost every day to make a living, and yet the kind of writing that feels personally, soulfully, and metaphysically fulfilling has been elusive. It’s like the ideas are there, the creative energy is buzzing—but the words won’t shape themselves. The current is strong, but the message is lost. The floodwaters wash away the S.O.S. I’ve scratched into the sand. Tissues dissolve in puddles of tears.

Sappy.

And “sappy” is the right word for this feeling.

The Britannica Dictionary defines sappy as follows:

sappy

/ˈsæpi/

adjective

sappier; sappiest

[also more sappy; most sappy]

US, informal

a: sad or romantic in a foolish or exaggerated way

b: foolish or silly: not thinking clearly or showing good judgment

2: full of sap

This pretty much sums up the writer’s block I’ve been working through. The ideas that do come feel either foolish and silly or melodramatic in their melancholy.

Too much, somehow. Too sad, too soft, too spirally. And also...

My head does feel full of sap.

Not full of ideas—full of sap. Rather than a clear, flowing stream of brilliant thoughts, my brain feels like cold syrup. Thick, sluggish. And yet, the crisp air of fall is blowing in, and I wonder if the departure of summer’s grip has begun to thaw my creative impulse, nudging it from sweltering pressure toward something brisk, refreshing even.

Budding, maybe. Almost blooming.

I’ve started to think that the antidote might be simple: going back to older forms. Journals. Diaries. Meandering, unpolished thought. My creative muscles have atrophied a bit—worn down by the demands of other work, and neglected through sheer fatigue. But writing without rules, without an endpoint or agenda, might be what gets these fingers moving again.

A little vulnerability, a little imperfection. A little bit of “just write the damn thing already.”

Which brings me here—to Substack.

Blogging on WordPress has often felt like shouting into the void. How are you supposed to make a poem Search Engine Optimized? Posting on Instagram—even when I put care into a caption—feels like tossing confetti into the wind. Neither platform is really built for the kind of creative writing I’m trying to grow into. It’s visual, fast, curated, SEO-driven, salesy even. I want slow, messy, and word-heavy.

I don’t want to feel obligated to post selfies just to gain traction.

And frankly, I want to get better at this. I’m working on my very first novel. It’s a huge learning curve and a little terrifying, but I want a space to stretch those creative muscles, without worrying about polish or perfection. Substack feels like a better home for that kind of work—a place where I can ramble, experiment, and grow.

So here’s to a rough, off-the-cuff, barely edited musing.

And hopefully, many more to come.